


Lunchable-Free Zone

by Chocchi



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Fluff, Future Fic, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 00:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7383913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocchi/pseuds/Chocchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A typical morning in the Oluransi-Birkholtz household.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lunchable-Free Zone

**Author's Note:**

> some mild mentions of anxiety towards the end, so take care of yourself if you don't wanna deal with that! it's pretty vague though. the rating is just for language!  
> i love ransom and holster. ransom and holster love each other. they're gonna get super married and have three (3) children and maybe a dog later and be So Fucking Happy together. you can't convince me otherwise

Ransom is always the one who hits the alarm clock first, but that’s because it’s on his side of the bed, dammit, not because he’s actually planning to _get up_ first.

“Holtzy,” he mutters, rolling back over. Holster grunts and burrows more deeply into the pillows. Into _Ransom’s_ pillows, the damn thief. “Holster. It’s your turn.”

“G’back to sleep,” Holster murmurs. An arm snakes its way out from under the covers and wraps around Ransom’s neck, tugging him back down to the mattress, to Holster. Ransom goes, easily.

“Sure,” Ransom says, mostly against Holster’s mouth at this point. “Cause it’s your turn. Up you get.”

“Rans,” Holster whines.

“Adam.”

“God, fine, I’m going, you cruel, cruel man,” Holster says. Slowly, he wobbles his way over Ransom and out of the bed. “Just you wait, I’ll burn breakfast and all the kids will be sad and malnourished and it’ll be all your fault.”

“Can’t hear you, too busy sleeping,” Ransom says. He rolls over and steals Holster’s warm spot just for the hell of it. Holster makes a noise of outrage. “S’your fault we were up so late anyway.”

“No regrets,” Holster says, smugly. Ransom wants to be mad, but he can’t blame him. He’d be smug if he had his husband so wound around his little finger he’d stay up till 2 am watching old-- like really old by now, jesus, can’t Holster at least find something recent-- sitcoms with him, too.

Ransom dozes off as Holster is getting dressed; he comes in and out of consciousness to the sounds of Holster going around to each bedroom, dragging the kids out of sweet dreams of candy and cartoons one by one, before the whole lot of them troop downstairs and Ransom falls asleep again entirely.

It’s a beginner’s mistake. He wakes up twenty minutes later when he takes a knee straight to the gut.

“Oof,” he wheezes. He blindly flails his hands out from under the blankets until they come in contact with a child. “Buddy, can you--”

“GOOD MORNING PAPA,” James hollers, even as Ransom is trying to manhandle him into a position where his knee is less in Ransom’s gut. “Daddy said we should come wake you up!”

“Did he.”

“He said we had to,” Trayvon says, climbing onto the foot of the bed so he can sprawl all over Ransom’s shins. Ransom resigns himself to not being able to feel his feet in five minutes. “Cause we woke _him_ up yesterday ‘n’ he said if we didn’t come wake you up too you might think we like him more than you and then you’d be sad so we had to make sure you knew we liked you both.”

“Daddy is a fiend,” Ransom mutters under his breath. More loudly, he says, “Well, if that’s how it is, both of you better get up here. Where’s my good morning hug?”

The boys whoop and throw themselves at him. “You, too, kiddo,” Ransom calls, and Elena darts over from where she’d been hovering in the doorway to add herself to the pile.

“G’morning Papa,” she mumbles.

“G’morning, princess,” Ransom says, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then to each of her brothers’. “Alright, team, what’s for breakfast?”

“Dad’s making eggs ‘n’ toast,” Elena says. “An’ he said you’d make my lunch, ‘cause I’m goin’ to the aquarium.”

Ransom has no idea how a field trip lunch is any different than a normal lunch but he’s highly suspicious that this is just Holster’s way of passing “telling Elena she can’t have a lunchable” duty off onto Ransom, the fucker.

“I guess we gotta make sure I don’t put any seafood in, then, or you’ll scare all the fish away.”

The boys gasp in horror. Elena just says, “ _Papa_ ,” in a put-upon voice that sounds horrifyingly reminiscent of Bitty.

“Alright, alright, everybody up,” Ransom says, herding everyone off the bed and towards the bedroom door. “Papa has to get dressed. Elena, do you want me to do your hair after breakfast, or do you wanna let Dad try again?”

“ _No_ ,” Elena says, looking so horrified that Ransom almost loses his shit on the spot. Poor Holster. “I want you to do it!”

“Alright, baby, don’t worry, I got your back,” he says, ruffling her frizzy curls. “Go eat your eggs and toast. James! No running on the stairs!”

“But Papa,” James whines, even as Trayvon is catching him by the arm so he can’t slip and skid all the way to the bottom in a bruised heap… Like Holster had when they first got the house and thought sliding around on his socks at the top of the stairs was a good idea. Like Ransom totally would have done if Holster hadn’t fucked up first.

(Shh. It’s fine. That was pre-Elena, they didn’t have to be real adults yet.)

“Just be safe, buddy,” Ransom says, and closes the door so he can get dressed in peace.

He troops downstairs five minutes later to find the kids eating their eggs, which are not burned, and studiously ignoring their toast, which _is_ burned. Holster is pouring a bowl of cereal on the counter and looks nowhere near as ashamed as he should.

“Nearly forty and you can’t work a toaster,” Ransom says. “Unbelievable.”

“Don’t make me sound so old, I’m only thirty-seven,” Holster whines.

“Wow, Daddy,” Trayvon says. “That’s really old.”

“Betrayed by my own son,” Holster says, mournfully, but he pats Trayvon on the back as he passes behind him to take his own place at the table.

“Elena, help your brother tell Dad how old he is so he can be betrayed by his daughter, too,” Ransom says, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Thirty-seven _is_ almost forty,” Elena says, with all the solemnity a nine-year-old trying not to laugh can muster.

“Oh, that’s it,” Holster says, and lunges across the table to the excited shrieks of the kids.

“Daddy, no!”

“Dad! Dad! Mercy!”

“No tickling at th’ table!” James shouts.

“It’s cool, James, let Daddy knock his cereal all over himself,” Ransom says. He slurps loudly at his coffee. “Feel the cold, milky regret.”

“Someone tell Papa to stop ruining my fun,” Holster complains, but releases their wheezing children to go back to eating their breakfasts. He turns wide, hopeful eyes to Ransom. “Babe? More coffee?”

“What’s the magic word?” Ransom says, even though he’s already sliding the carafe out of the coffeemaker.

“Abracadabra,” Holster offers.

“ _Daddy_ , no,” James says.

“Huh? No? What about hocus pocus?”

“Daddy!”

Elena gives Ransom a look that is done with their shit beyond her years. Putting up with Holster’s jokes will do that to a kid, Ransom guesses. She’s been hearing the _magic word_ joke for six years now.

“Oh, well, if it’s not abracadabra or hocus pocus, then I don’t know--”

“Dad, Papa will drink all the coffee if you don’t hurry up,” Elena says.

“He wouldn’t,” Holster says, but he eyes Ransom suspiciously all the same. Ransom holds his gaze serenely and takes a long, slow pull from his mug. “Okay, okay, geez! _Please_ , will you pour me more coffee, dear husband mine?”

“Since you asked so nicely,” Ransom says. He leans down to press a lingering kiss to Holster’s cheek as he pours. Holster twists to catch his lips; Ransom hums contentedly, closing his eyes and pressing into the kiss.

“Gross,” Elena says, without any heart to it.

“Papa, Daddy’s cup is overflowing,” Trayvon says.

Ransom jerks away, but it’s too late-- there’s coffee pooling around the base of Holster’s mug, running towards the edge of the table, and Holster’s lips are already curling up into a shit-eating grin.

“You fu--fudger,” Ransom mutters, dashing back to the counter to shove the carafe back in the coffeemaker and grab the paper towels. “Bet you did that on purpose.”

“Eh, I think if I had to choose between hot coffee to the crotch and cold, milky regret, I’d rather have spilled my cereal,” Holster says, but he hasn’t stopped grinning. Ransom is on to him.

“Papa,” Elena starts, eyes going wide and doe-soft.

“No,” Ransom says, because he knows exactly what’s coming. He mops up the worst of the coffee-spill and hands the rest of the paper towels to Holster. Holster pouts at him. “You can’t have a lunchable.”

“But _Papa_ ,” Elena whimpers. “Everyone else has lunchables.”

“Then I’ll just have to make you something better than a lunchable,” Ransom says. “Hm? How about mac ‘n’ cheese, who wants mac ‘n’ cheese?”

All of the kids perk up.

“I want mac ‘n’ cheese,” Trayvon says, staring at his older sister hopefully.

“Mac ‘n’ cheese!” James cries.

“It’s Elena’s choice,” Holster says, authoritatively. “She’s the one with a field trip today.”

Elena hesitates. “Can I choose--”

“No lunchables,” Ransom says. He grabs the bread and pops a slice into the toaster for himself, trying to remember if they actually have anything to put on toast. The poor kids haven’t even bothered, since Holster burnt the hell out of theirs.

“Mac ‘n’ cheese,” Elena says, sulkily. “And carrots.”

“But carrots are _gross_ ,” Trayvon says.

“Well, we have to take _some_ kinda veggies and I _like_ carrots so _there_.”

“Do we really have time for mac ‘n’ cheese?” Holster asks, lowly, coming to join Ransom at the counter under the pretense of putting the paper towels back. “I dunno if you can whip that together before their bus comes.”

“It’s fine, I can drive us all today,” Ransom says. He squints into the cupboards. Are they out of peanut butter? “I have to go in early for that meeting anyway.”

“Cool,” Holster says. He presses a gentle kiss to the corner of Ransom’s mouth. “Don’t suppose you can make some mac ‘n’ cheese for me, too?”

“I know what you’re doing, you loser,” Ransom says, shoving Holster’s face away from his. “You can’t fool me into letting the toast burn just so you can pretend you’re not a human disaster in the kitchen.”

“Papa, it’s not nice to call people losers,” Trayvon says. “You have to say you’re sorry.”

“Yeah, _Justin_ , you hurt my feelings,” Holster croons.

Sometimes it’s so sad that Ransom has to be a good example for his kids now and can’t just put Holster in a headlock until he admits defeat. Ransom misses those days.

Except for the part where he wasn’t kissing Holster back then. He doesn’t miss that part.

They all survive breakfast, even Ransom’s toast, and Ransom somehow manages to make mac ‘n’ cheese, do Elena’s hair, get ready for work and brush his teeth all in thirty minutes.

“Wonder dad,” Holster says, giving Ransom a peck on the lips on his way past him to stuff the lunchboxes full of mac ‘n’ cheese, carrots and juice boxes in the kids’ backpacks.

“And it was your turn this morning, too,” Ransom huffs.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Holster says. “Take off early today, yeah? Take a nap. I’ll pick the kids up and take them to the park.”

“Can’t,” Ransom says. The fuzzy, warm feeling of domestic comfort that’s hung in the air all morning is starting to edge away. “Too much to get done this weekend.”

“It’s Friday, Rans,” Holster says.

“Yeah, so I have to get this stuff done by Mond--”

Holster kisses him harder this time.

“Ew,” Elena says, from the doorway. Ransom distractedly sees her grab all the backpacks and take them back to her brothers, herding them out the door, out of the corner of his eye. “Papa, we’ll be waiting in front of the garage!”

“Kay,” Ransom mumbles, against Holster’s mouth.

“Take a break,” Holster murmurs over the sound of Elena closing the door. He cradles Ransom’s jaw gently in his hands. “You’ve been working so hard to get your presentation ready. You’ve earned an afternoon off.”

“I can’t,” Ransom says, weakly. They’ve tried this before. Ransom just ended up lying alone in bed wide-awake for an hour, anxiously thinking about all the things he should be working on, until Holster came back with the kids to find him on his laptop working.

Anxiety is still hard. It’s better with the kids, easier when he can tell himself it’s important dad-time; better with Holster home to distract him and keep him from running himself into the ground. Alone, though. Alone doesn’t work so well.

“Alternatively,” Holster says, wiggling his eyebrows, “Uncle Crappy takes them to the park, and we have Daddy-Papa Alone Time.”

“If you ever say Daddy-Papa Alone Time while trying to be sexy again, I will divorce you,” Ransom says, but the tension is already easing out of his shoulders.“Isn’t it Lardo’s turn to babysit?”

“It’s not relaxing if our kids come home again covered in glitter,” Holster says.

“That’s true,” Ransom says, thoughtfully. James and Trayvon’s room, home of all family craft projects, is basically under quarantine to prevent glitter spread to the rest of the house.

“Babe,” Holster says. “Come on. You got this.”

He gives Ransom one last firm kiss-- on the nose, because he’s gross and mushy and romantic in ways Ransom never realized he wanted, before Holster-- and shoves him out the door so he can wave from the porch while Ransom stuffs the kids into the car.

“Bye Daddy!” James hollers, as Ransom buckles him in.

“Bye buddy, have a good day at school!” Holster calls. “You too, Trayvon! Have fun on at the aquarium, Elena, fight a shark for Uncle Chowder!”

“But I thought Uncle Chowder liked sharks,” Elena says, as she buckles her own seatbelt. “Why would he want me to fight one?”

“He wouldn’t,” Ransom says. “No fighting sharks.”

Elena, who has never before expressed any desire to fight a shark, looks suddenly rebellious.

“Not until you’re at least thirteen,” Ransom adds.

“Oh, okay,” Elena says, relaxing back against her seat again. As he slides into the driver’s seat, Ransom gives Holster a glower that he hopes communicates _look what you’ve done now_. Their daughter wants to fight a shark without any proper training or preparation, honestly. She should at least wait until Bitty teaches her how to fuck someone up with nothing but a pair of skates and a bag of spare sequins.

Holster suddenly jogs up to the car and taps on the driver’s window. Ransom rolls it down.

“Last kiss for the road,” Holster says, smooshing his mouth against Ransom’s and pulling back before Ransom react. He blows a kiss to the kids in the back seat. “For you guys, too. Everybody have a good day! You’re gonna kill that presentation, Rans.”

“Thanks,” Ransom says, feeling absurdly reassured. “Love you, Holtzy.”

“Love you too, babe,” Holster says, with an outrageous wink. “Love you, kiddos!”

“Love you Daddy,” the kids chorus back, dutifully.

“Now get going!” Holster laughs, ducking back out of the way.

“You’re the one holding us up, geez,” Ransom says, grinning despite himself as he rolls the window back up. “Alright, let’s get this show on the road!”

As he backs out onto the road, Holster is still waving from the driveway, and Trayvon and Elena are starting a debate in the back about how old you have to be to fight a shark. Ransom has a killer presentation to give at the meeting this morning, and a full day of work after that, but he’s got his husband and his kids and it’s going to be okay.

Better than okay, even.


End file.
